


Bête

by Medalis



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Elves and their angry magicks, Beauty and the Beast AU, Bilbo is a thief and a sex worker but he doesn't really enjoy it, Crossdressing, Dragon!Thorin, Evil Jewelry, Frodo is a slightly strange child, Gandalf is a Troll, In a less literal sense, Multi, Old men getting young men into trouble, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painful Transformations/Body Horror, Probably some Size Kink, Prostitution, Tiny Hobbits and Big Monsters, and Dis would really like it if someone told her what was going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medalis/pseuds/Medalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor is filled with many treasures, of gold and diamond and gemstones unknown, but perhaps ugly scale and flesh are the most precious things within these mighty, shimmering halls. </p><p>      Or, the Beauty and the Beast AU that no one asked for.</p><p>And the one that will never be completed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Design

It started with gems made of starlight.

      Beautiful things, really. They glimmered and glinted, brilliant with their own light, delicate stones that did not suit the thick, ugly chest they had been stored within, nor did they fit in the society they’d found themselves in. But a trade was a trade, elven baubles (ugly, by bitter dwarven standard) for a few bits of gold. Hardly much, but desperate were the gemstones’ owner, taking all he could grab and running with a small pouch of coins. 

      The ravens later found his body picked clean, and silver was passed around in lost (and won) bets. 

The gemstones were of little use to Dwarves. They were pretty, certainly, but not precious. Unique, perhaps, but few wanted them for any use beyond a piece to chat over, or expansive ceilings. Content with their mountain the Dwarves were, uncaring for the skies above or the green of the grass, and starlit vistas did not affect them in the way it did Elves. 

      Alas, useless as the gemstones were, stubbornness kept them hidden within the hoard, even as cloven hoof broke down stone doors and golden armor marched inward. 

Stolen, the stones were. From the King of the Woodlands’ own dresser, even. King Thranduil was no friend to the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, much less friend to their Kings, and his audience was unwanted. But bitterness be the Elven mindset, antlers forcing open doors and autumn drapery sliding across fire-tinted stone. 

      “You have no right to them.” claimed the angered Elf, his moose settled awkwardly upon the walkway behind him. Soldiers lined expansive halls, glinting in the warm firelight, ill fitting to the normal stature of the mountain’s inhabitants. “They were not the thief’s to trade. What use have your mole-like kind of starlight?”

      “None.” replied proud Thror, his child and heir grandchild on either side of him, varying shades of black hair turning silver. Coldest were the youngest’s eyes, unusually blue for a dwarf, hand on a silver sword at his side, his Father’s holding it from sliding from it’s embroidered sheath. “But they are pretty baubles, and hardly stolen by _our_ hands. How were we to know a typical, half-starved man did not have the right to carry them upon his person?”

      “They,” hissed the ancient elf, endlessly beautiful in ways unlike and uninteresting to those who live underfoot. To mortal men, perhaps, it would lure them, encourage compliance, but Dwarves were of a different make, a different body, and slim, frail creatures barely hold their interest. “Belong to _me._ I demand them back!”

“Without _pay_?” Thror remained in his throne, bemused and uncaring, his people watching them from far below, lined upon walkways and stairwells and in straps along the carven walls. Some even work, carving out little hollows in the vast ceiling, setting tiny points of beautiful white light that leave some of the Elven soldiers in a half-struck daze. “We traded quite a bit of gold to get them. Stolen or not, we payed honest money for what really only amount decoration.”

      “Any amount of lost gold is enough to wear upon the greedy!” snapped Thranduil,stomping forward, a hand pointing a delicately sculpted sword towards the Heirs of Erebor. “And greedy you _are._ It infects your mind, your youth, and your _choices._ Let it be what rots your throne, and brings hellfire into the throat of your _spawn._ ”  The rest was lost in ancient shrieks, words that did not register as words to any who listened, the older elves in the crowd drawing back in fear. Spellwork, weaving itself around all who heard, taking root in the glimmering Heart of the Mountain and eyes that seemed almost to match its splendor. 

      The elves left in but minutes, fuming, and all seemed well. Ale was passed about, celebrating the mural in the cavernous ceiling, constellations of Dwarven make and design. Crowns, rivers, miners and carvers: that of which is important to them, so terribly different than the beasts of Man and the hunters of Elves; The Stars of Thror in the deep halls of Durin. Prettier than the Sky itself, word passing to ravens with messages to come and see, see the wonders they had created, sculpted, the Sky of Dwarven make as all things should be.

      Prince Thorin fell into fever later that day, and the ravens fled from the halls.

And, from there, the story crumbles into disarray. Some claim the halls began to melt, and others say that the gold lining King Thror’s treasure hoard began to boil. Perhaps the ceiling grew cloudy, or perhaps the miners struck the center of the Earth, lava rushing up around the bottom halls in a flood of heat. And few, few others claim to have heard screaming, their blue-eyed Prince _bursting,_ a beast rising to take his place upon the Earth. 

      Most say a earthquake occurred, sealing the doors and destroying most of Erebor’s mighty work. Stranded were the dwarves who managed to escape, fleeing to nearby Dale, seeking shelter in the simple sculptures of plain houses and brick. Many of Durin’s folk died, Thror and his wife and his two grandsons, leaving only odd Prince Thrain and young Princess Dís to rally their people, reign in loss and the shadow of their Lonely Mountain. 

      Time passes, marching endlessly forward, and some still say that they hear screaming from the broken halls below. 

 

 


	2. Layout

It has been a year, and he thinks Frodo deserves a treat. 

    Not a easy year, mind you, like they used to be. The road was hard, even on their sturdy feet, and many comforts had been tossed away in favour of survival. Towns were fewer and farther between now, drifting from homely house to homely house, their heads ducked and clothing long since beyond the repair of a wash or two. What would have been midday snacks were meals, and tea was far, far too rare for his liking. 

    But they made do, and he thinks it better, in the end. The road is far kinder than the Sackville-Baggins would have been. 

    They make their way into a town, and he has plenty of gold for once. They take a room at a local inn for a week, Frodo delightfully bouncing on the bed and rolling aroundthe oft-swept floor, and he invests in a little cake for his little nephew. 

    “Slowly, Frodo, or you’ll make yourself sick.” he chastises when the little hobbit spills a bit of frosting on his overcoat, a large chunk of the cake gone already, crumbs in his nephew’s dark hair and frosting on his (still chubby) little face. Frodo grins and whistles his thanks, hopping off the large chair to play with his old wooden yoyo. He can’t help but smile, innocence in tiny hands, leaning down to kiss away sweet frosting and wipe it from his boy’s brow. 

   He thinks he’ll take a day to sleep, cuddled in a warm, soft bed, with wiggly little feet curled up against his chest and breakfast waiting outside the door. He rarely gets a break, busy with gathering coin and whatever else they can salvage, sneaking into ugly warlord’s beds in order to get at their bulging purse. It is safe here, this homely home guarded by Rangers and Knights, and a weapon can (and, perhaps, should) be purchased at the market.

   If he wasn’t worried, he’d like to settle here. It’s nice, even if a little cold and a little smelly, what with the lack of flowers and such. Was there business in this town, outside of torchlight and heavy makeup, lifted skirts and a pair of false breasts? He could steal, but thieves do not settle, not safely, and neither do hired smiles. 

   Frodo needs a place to grow, learn, make friends and take root: their kind is sedentary, plant-like, eager to find a place to put their roots down and never move from that spot. It’s probably why he hasn’t seen many of his kind around these parts, other than as pets or the rare vagabond, traveling with many tall men in order to guarantee their own safety. 

   He’d like to find a place with flowers, honestly, but their life mustn’t be picky. 

   The dusk approaches, and he cracks open a well-thumbed book to read. It’s one of Frodo’s favourites, written by a forest spirit, about lions and men and witches cold. It’s a little grotesque, he thinks, for a tree to write in a book made of his own branches, but he supposes that, if he had nothing to do all day, he might start scribbling on his own skin as well. But Frodo loves it, loves the lions and the children and the fauns and the beavers, so he puts aside his petty dislike of children’s novels to cater to his boy’s wishes. 

   Frodo’s bright eyes slowly flutter closed, the moon rising and the candlelight dancing, and he tucks his little head into the space between breast and chin, cooing in a young snore. He’s a adorable little thing, with dark hair so like that of his parents, more Took than Baggins in look and nature. It’s a good thing, he thinks, because if he was more of a gentle Baggins than a rowdy Took, this arrangement wouldn’t work nearly as well. 

  He settled the boy against him a bit further, closer, and tucked them in, warm quilts and full bellies and a bit of sweet cream on his tongue. 

 

* * *

 

    He awakes to a sourly loud _thwack-thwack._

Frodo, blessed be the little child, tugs on his hair when he doesn’t get up, a pause between knock-knocking, shaking his shoulders and reaching for the heavy, oddly-scented wig on his bedstand.

    “Uncle-Auntie, sumune’s at th’ door.” his boy whispers, dumping blonde curls on his head, a groan of begrudgement and rolled shoulders. He rights the wig, pushes his throat up, and sets about pulling on padding and petticoats, a journey to the market in their future. Mm, are those fresh rolls he smells...?

   “I’m not accepting clients today! Or tomorrow! Or anytime soon! Booked full, you see. Try the fellow down the hall!” he called, a bit pitched, throat aching with the strain. Frodo got up and started on the bedding, fixing it up habitually before flopping back into the mass of off-white and blue, crooning. 

   And, again, knockity-knock-knock, a stubborn client most likely, of either one thing or the other or both. Very useful skills, he had, especially for these places; what he knows now would have been worthless in the Shire, rolling green hills full of lovely folk who (usually) don’t care if a bit of bread is taken or their coin purse dips a little or if a husband and a wife are found in bed with a third. 

   He huffs, _thudthudthud,_ and lifts his petticoats up a bit to walk to the door, unlatching the lock and pulling it open just a bit. Pale eyes peer back, hunched over to his height, wrinkled skin and gray abound. 

   “... can I help you?” he inquires, pressing on his h’s hard, mimicking the thickness of Northern folk. A gray beard crinkles in a smile, and a staff presses into the space between door and frame, pushing it open so the hulk of a man can slip inside, closing the door behind him. “I’m closed for the week, you know, and my boy’s still in here.”

   “Good morning.” greets the stranger, wiggling his fingers at Frodo, a black mop of fleece that peers out over the safety of a quilt. He does not want a fight, not in front of his nephew, and yet--

   “A good morning as in a wishing, a statement, or a --”

   “A wishing, and a offer.” interrupts the old man, settling into a chair. “Tell me you remember me, Bilbo Baggins-Took? I can’t imagine it’s been that long since I’ve last seen you. You’ve grown a bit taller, and perhaps your hair is longer, but, really, you seem to take pride in your memory.”

   Memory. Yes, he did have a good one. Once, of course, just as all children do: easily so prideful, the Tooks moreso, confident in anything and everything they had. He had many things, riches and toys and pretty baubles and maps and books, and he was probably a very annoying child. 

   “Fireworks.” supplies the old man, and he recalls. Gandalf the Gray, a strange man who seemed immortal in the ways of Elves and faeries, but never quite as pretty, fond of the Tooks enough to take his cart of explosives over to Bag End for birthdays and weddings alike. A wizard, he thinks, what with the hat and the crystal-tipped staff and all. Only one he’d ever known, comparisons bleak until he came across traveling magicians, petty and full of only fireworks and never anything more. 

   “I did not think your preferences went towards those barely the size of your arm.” he quirks, without much else to say. Gandalf is a beloved childhood figure, some of his best memories full of exploring and tales of beasts and conquest, but he is not one that has ever appealed to any of the more basic of his needs. Wizards were not known for coins, nor did he care to learn much into whatever else they held in their pockets. 

   Gandalf smiles, a crinkle that runs from his cheeks to his eyes, and Frodo pointedly coughs as he pulls out a pipe to smoke. The pipe is put away, without a light, understanding in eyes gentle as a beast’s. Gandalf always did remind him of a horse. “Hardly the reason for my visit, Mr. Baggins. Or, ah, _Mrs_?” 

   His mouth pulls to the side and opens the door to peer around for breakfast, instead finding it in a basket held out by lanky fingers. He takes the food and tea from the wizard with a huff, setting eggs and bread out for Frodo and warming the tea in the fire. His voice cracks, returning to the lower pitches barely grazing the highest of man’s, yet lower than that of a elf’s in their own tongue. Fascinating, that. “I haven’t changed _that_ much, Gandalf.”

   “No, I suppose you haven’t. For better or worse, hm?” 

   Frodo, helpfully, brings over plates and saucers, holding cups out for tea and taking one over to the man. Gandalf smiles again and produces a strange little bauble from his robes, something that twists in itself in dizzying patterns. Curious little Frodo snatches it up and flees back to his nest, toying with a new puzzle, likely to be occupied for a good few hours. 

   “It depends. At the moment, I am content. Two days ago... perhaps not as much.” he sits down across from the ancient lump of what resembles a human but could probably be something far stranger, knowing the extent of trickery a wizard uses in everyday conversation. “But this is what life has become, and I suppose it is fine. You’re not here for my services, are you? I’m not much in the mood to ruin my childhood.”

   The smile on his face does not reach his eyes this time, and worn fingers work at a worn pipe. “In a way, I am, Mr. Baggins. I’m in need of your services, but not for myself.”

   “A contractor, hm?” he asks, itching for his pipe, but foregoing it for the sake of Frodo’s weak lungs. “I prefer to _see_ my clients before I take their coin and they have their way. You’d be surprised to the indicators of illness that can be found at a glance.”

   Gandalf sighs, sighs in the way of the elderly when a child bumps into their tea kettles, and takes a sip from his cup. “How much does Fro--”

   “You can use the word thief.” he presumes, and watches Gandalf’s face crinkle in something in-between disappointment and pride. “Or burglar. He’s a smart little sprout, and he picks up on language with ease. I think I overheard him babbling in Elvish the other day.”

   “ _B--bababa-aa--_ ” supplied Frodo, ever helpful. He fell back into the nest, holding a piece of a puzzle block, trying to unlatch the rest of it as it slithered around his fingers. 

    “ _Hm_.” The wizard raises his eyebrows and nods to the boy, turning back to face him with a far more serious expression. “A burglar is what is _needed_ , Mr. Baggins. Tell me, what know you of _dwarves?_ ”

   Ah, never a good start to a conversation. Proposal? Proposal. The conversation started a while ago. Hm. He really does need to get back to reading more, his vocabulary is suffering. “Not much, or perhaps more than I would presume. They seem complicated, if not brutish, stubborn as a mule and not much better smelling. But friendly enough, I suppose, provided you refrain from getting near anything they’ve staked their claim on. I’ve been with a few of them, taken a few baubles, and they’ve always been the ones to chase me the farthest. What need has a wizard of a burglar when easily-jealous dwarves are involved? Sounds rather dangerous, if you ask me.”

   “Very.” dour seems the old man, hunched over to properly face him, a courtesy not often given. When one only stands a man’s leg high, it’s surprising as to how few kindnesses are offered. Another item is produced from the bottomless sack that seems to be the wizard’s cloak, a rolled up bunch of paper tied together with a piece of green ribbon. “Unfortunately so. But the rewards are great, and, perhaps, worth it, depending upon what you wish for.”

   He tilts his head to that, taking the contract and peering at it, almost his length and some, mulling over terms and conditions and wording. While he reads, Gandalf seems to refill tea and fascinate Frodo with more puzzles and baubles, murmuring to him in strange languages that his boy picks up with a few chirps and coos. 

   “What do you mean by ‘possibly burning alive by fires hotter than that of dwarven furnace?’” he inquires, and Gandalf peers to the fire, flashes his staff at it, and a skewer of meat hanging above catches alight, burnt to a sour-smelling crisp. 

   Hardly comforting, that. 

   “You know that displays such as that are hardly marketable.” he grumbles, peering at tiny print and odd markings, grammar unusual in places befitting that of a speaker who learned second-hand. “No matter my nephew’s _pyromania_.”

   Frodo giggles and pokes at the fire with a stick, watching it burn and sparkle with glee. The wizard, helpfully, turns the flames green. 

   The contract, in summary, is simple enough. It details a theft needed from a place that most cannot reach, caverns too small for even dwarves, and items that needed to be, slowly, removed without their owner catching wind. The owner and the contractor both are listed as Dwarves, the place listed once a capitol for the species, a Mountain sculpted into a massive maze that only those used to the depths of dirt and stone can fathom. Elves, while plenty slinky and nimble, would lose themselves in the darkness and confining spaces, and man would not fare much better. 

    So, a Hobbit it is, it seems. 

   He rolls the document up, sets it aside, and frowns. His tea has gone cold and Frodo has settled in the bed for a mid-day nap, sucking on the precious ring around his neck, and Gandalf tends to the fire and sets out lunch, more bread and fruit and carrots and a stick of lamb. 

       “No.” he answers. The wizard hunches, as if air flows out of his heart, and looks to him with tired, ageless eyes. “I've had quite enough of thieving. This town is a good one, and I would much rather prefer to settle here rather than continue my poorly-chosen lifestyle. The Shire is far, but this place you speak of seems years away. There are not many Mountains close at hand, after all, and Frodo shouldn't have a childhood full of rocks and--”

        “No, I understand completely.” The old man sighs, pushing himself up with his towering staff. His eyes seem sad, regretful even, bones (or wood?) creaking in ways better suiting that of willows and windstorms. "Wandering takes the years from you. I should know."

        He purses his lips and glances to his cold tea, to the empty cup at Frodo's bedside, and to the tremor of flames that glimmer in the corners of his eyes. His boy snuffles in his sleep, curls falling around his chin, and he does suit these sheets nor these dwellings, so terribly tiny in a world far larger than any good Hobbit should be able to understand. 

        Frodo is a sweet little Baggins, no matter how much of a ragged Took his Uncle is. 

        Gandalf leaves the contract upon the table, unlatching locks and holding the door open for him to snatch the basket of lunch from the hallways. Mutton and bread and cheese, fresh water and some ragged little flowers, barely bright enough to add colour. Even here, the wizard seems immense, hunched over in the doorway so his hat doesn't fall off, and he knows from his childhood that the old man could barely fit in Bag End. 

        He locks the door behind the wizard, ears twitching at a scratch of what must be the man's staff against the worn floorboards, and sets about reading pamplets and filling in books, estimating taxes and costs. He can tell the people wealthy upon the hills, and, if it is what he must do, a few more fortnights of skirts and sweat will do well enough.

        The candles burn in the darkness of early night, a bitter reminder of coming winter, the end of fall quick approaching. Almost a year, then, of wandering and running, the start of spring heralding their leave of sweetly rolling hills and curls that matched their own. 

    He shuts his book and cleans up dinner, Frodo poking the flames in a solemn manner ill fitting one barely so old, thumbing his ring and flickering in-and-out of sight like a little ghost. 

   “Stay here?” the tiny hobbit asked, his shirt being lifted off his shoulders so a sleeping grown can take its place, his little toes wiggling against woodgrain and fabric as he’s set in bed. He presses a kiss to his boy’s brow, clambering into bed after him, tucking his feet against his chest and brushing his hands through curls. “Stay?”

   “It’s a nice town.” he replies, glancing out the window at flat plains and simple dirt, dark blues and cold shades that would have never suited Bag End. “Spring is a few months away, and it’ll be too cold for us to be wandering. Just for a little while, mm? Maybe, when Spring comes, we’ll leave for Rivendell.”

   “K- _kkkaay_...” Frodo pressed his head under his Uncle’s chin, the chill of their heirloom ring frigid against his skin, surrounded by precious warmth. The wind begins to stir outside, a dreadful storm visibly brewing, and he reaches to tuck them in and cover their heads with blankets.

 

* * *

 

   Morning comes with yet another set of knocks, louder and seemingly angrier. Frodo doesn’t rise at them this time, settled with the blankets about his shoulders, shivering and watching the door with unusually pale eyes. He groans at them, rubbing at his eyes and throwing his ugly wig on, tucking blonde curls underneath and unlatching metal locks.

    “I’m not accepting guests at the mo--”

   Except he does not think, now that he’s had a glance, that this is a possible client. Taller than him but not as much as a man would be, pale eyes peer down, long tresses of silver-black hair woven into thick braids and weaves, intricate and lined with beads and clasps. Attractive, vaguely, the strong face of what can only be a dwarf, especially with such a clearly-cared for beard, thick eyebrows and puckered scars that lace upwards, pink against tan skin. The dwarf narrows his eyes, mouth pulling to the side, and a axe shifts threateningly behind his back. 

   “Neither was I.” Feminine, that voice is. Not in the way of Hobbits, of course, and, while he has only once met a female dwarf, he now sees the more delicate lines of female grace in her jaw and around her eyes, thinner eyelashes and plumper lips and what can only be a sizable pair of breasts underneath her coat. She’s beautiful, frighteningly so, and he swallows on reflex. “A shame about that, _dah_?”

   She grabs him, fiercer than he would have liked, and pulls him out to view the box upon stone steps, wood that found itself jammed into a space between two carved buildings, out of place here but, likely, a very fitting piece to a puzzle that matches the hotel back in Lyan.

   Gandalf’s staff taps, just out of sight, and he can visibly see the old man’s mouth crinkle in a playful smile, Frodo chirping in wonder from inside the hacked-off hotel room. 

   “I told you I would find you a burglar.” the wizard rumbles, a winter thunderstorm in himself, and the strange woman drops him back into his room, slamming the door shut with a finality that cracks the woodwork. 

   In his defense, it’s been a rather long time since he last allowed himself to faint. 


	3. Carving

Frodo wakes him with a bit of lukewarm water, settled on his chest like a little owl, pale eyes wide and mouth pulled into a worried frown. “Uncle-Auntie?”

His head throbs, as does his backside. Wood isn’t all that comfortable to fall upon, but he supposes it could have been worse. He could have fainted on the cliff of a gully, like poor old Brandybuck-Baggins. What a way to go. 

He pats Frodo’s head comfortingly, scratching through dark curls, and the boy presses into his hand, crawling off his chest so he can pull himself up. The ground underneath is soft, a bed he does not recognize, not quite as much as the ones he preferred back at Bag End but nice enough for the average folk. Smaller than he’s grown used to, even, a Dwarf bed rather than a Man’s.

He sees his bags set to the side of the room, stone-cut and wood-trimmed, and wonders why he was moved. The hotel room was shabby, perhaps, but it at least had cupboards and a stove.

This feels like a prison cell. 

Frodo seems calm enough, he supposes, and that is usually enough to set him at ease. The boy has incredible instincts, bundled in with his hardly Hobbit-like eyes and hair, probably from his more Ungentlehobbit-like relatives. Ah, Frodo did always resemble Mother Took more than Father Baggins, more than he ever did. 

Gandalf pushes the wooden door open, knocking on it afterwards, hat tipped forward for the sake of privacy. He sets about making himself presentable, thankful for going to bed with his more masculine underthings on, even if it’ll take him a bit to get his padding on. 

“Do you require assistance?” Asks the old man, kindly even if tricksy, offering a branch-like hand. He shakes his head, wig haphazardly pulled over his curls, fixing the laces of his bosom, helpfully located on the sides for ease of access. “Ah, well, I suppose those sort of laces become simple with time, hm? I never did understand how Galadriel managed to find the time for corsets.”

He steps into his petticoats and pulls a simple dress, green and nearly brown, faded brocades and worn hemming. One of his Mother’s, packed roughly in a attempt to take something precious, and it smells more of dirt than it does of flowers now. He dresses Frodo next, helping him with pants that do not fit in any sort of way, and a tattered waistcoat patched with handkerchiefs and whatever else they could grab ahold of. Gandalf stands to the side, awkward in the way of trees amongst boulders, ill fitting and much too large to be helpful. 

He finishes his lacing and tying, Frodo scampering away to inspect Gandalf’s sleeves for tricks, happy as could be when a sweet roll is handed down. 

“He’s barely had breakfast yet.” he frowns, his boy breaking off a piece to share, plopping down to eat. “You’ll spoil him.”

“Does he not deserve it?” the old man replies, and he shrugs to that. He looks to the side and sees guards, one Dwarf and one Man, clad in armors of similar make. “Of any boy I know...”

“And I assume you know many?” he raises a eyebrow, gathering Frodo into his arms, the little Hobbit perfectly content with his treat. Gandalf smiles, but it is a humorless smile, that of a man who has never had children of his own but many of other’s. “Nevermind. You should learn of _no_ , wizard. Are you usually so stubborn?”

“Terribly so.” the wizard stood aside, shutting the door behind them. He led them downward, down stone steps and crowds of Dwarf and Man, the bustle of a city carved from the mountainside itself. Fishermen, he thinks, by the sight of barrels and silver flesh and the familiar stench of scales. It made his stomach rumble, even if fish was a poor breakfast. A chicken screeched by, chased by children (of what make, he couldn’t tell), and, yes, _that_ would make for a far better breakfast, and maybe even a good second breakfast. “Especially in the cases such as these.”

“You hardly advertised this as anything akin to a _pleasurable_ experience.” he grumbled, stepping out of the way of guardsmen and giggling skirts. “Or anything I could possibly walk away from.”

“You hardly give yourself enough credit.” replies old Gandalf, coming upon a spire of stone and scrolls, ancient languages of unknown make painting banners of gold and glimmering jewels. Guards stand aside, dwarves, finely decorated axes held at the ready. “Let her Highness be judge enough, for she certainly will.”

He opened his mouth to reply, scathing, but doors opened and he was ushered inward, to a room round and roughly decorated. Tapestries and scrolls and wood and stone, gemstones set into the walls themselves, the clear handiwork of loving dwarven-make spiraling upward into a sculpted ceiling of ravens overhead, wings edged with gold. 

There sat who he presumed to be the royal that Gandalf spoke of, the female dwarf of before, faded brocades around her shoulders and a heavy crown upon her brow. At her side, a man not unlike her in look, black hair silver with age and pale eyes vaguely red, leather about his waist and a bow around his back. 

A Princess (or Queen? He saw no King, and none of his stories ever gave a woman her throne without a man to marry, and the bowman hardly seemed like one to be her husband - what a odd mix it would be, a dwarf and a man!) and her head Guardsman, he presumed. Both turned to him, faces set into stone, and only the Bowsman softened. Likely only for Frodo, his simple attention caught by a ruby set into the wall. 

He doesn’t know quite how to greet royalty, so he simply bows at the waist, Frodo chirping in alarm as he’s hefted up and down. The bowsman smiles, and he thinks the man a Father, if only for the gentleness of his eyes. The Queen, perhaps, not so much. 

She leans forward, placing her hands onto a well-used desk, papers and books and quills piled upon piles. It makes him miss his study at Bag End, full of stories he never completes, _There and Back Again_ and _The Lord of Underhill,_ all that was adventurous found in bound pages and painted maps. Dwarves never struck him as the sort to find interest in quills and paintings, their products so much heavier and with far more ancient means, for books were Elvish in design even if Hobbits took to them with the ease of most luxuries. 

Ah, but a Hobbit was not made to be a whore or a burglar, and what room did he have to judge? Perhaps she was a incredible author, her hands worked by quill and paper rather than forges and stone. 

“Your hands.” she demanded, short in the way all dwarves seemed to be (quite the judge aren’t you, Bilbo Baggins-Took?), rapping her fingernails against the wood of her desk. “Put them here.”

He doesn’t understand, but Gandalf takes one of his hands and splays it out for the Queen to inspect, rough in this and likely all things. She turned his wrist and picked at his fingernails, blood underneath and skin still soft. She pushed him away then, glaring, standing to kick her chair back into place and stare sourly at him, and then Gandalf. Fierce woman, truly. 

“You promised me a _burglar,_ not a housewife.” she hissed, like some sort of disgruntled cat, and the bowman approached him to whisper his hellos to Frodo. The boy merely blinked, fascinated, and reached out to touch the beginnings of a beard. “What use will she be, if she’s softer than a overripe fruit?”

“Mind not milady,” murmured the bowman in his ear, letting Frodo chew on a bit of his graying hair. “She is in grief, violently so.”

Gandalf looks insulted, rightfully so, and he leans against his staff to furrow his brow. “You asked for a burglar, and I have brought you one. Quite difficultly, even! Moving a room from one corner of the land to another may seem easy to speak of, but it has left a chill in my bones that I am certain will keep me foul for the days coming!”

“I don’t much appreciate her tone.” he murmurs back, Frodo crooning at something or other, tucking his precious ring underneath his shirt when the man’s eyes turn curious towards it. “Nor do I appreciate much of what my morning has become.”

“She fainted at the sight of me - what good will she be in the Mountain, where god knows what beasts creep?” Oddly concerned, he realizes, the Queen is being. Her tone is punishing, but she seems fretful over his safety, glancing to him with eyes far less kind than her words. “We are not _heathens_! Sacrifice of the innocents will do nothing for our cause.”

“Do you doubt my choice?” inquires sharp Gandalf, a summer storm rising in his words, lightening that sparked between the points of his staff and hair that raised with static. Frodo sneezes with it, and the sound calms the wizard, his powers kept in check for fear of harming the child. “You asked for a brilliant burglar, not of man or elf, and I have brought you what can only be the best Hobbit thief I know of.”

The bowsman looks to the Queen, furious as a waterfall, she who grasps her axe as a lifeline in times of great stress. She looks as if she is tempted to break someone, be it a desk or a nose, the scarring running along her cheek violently pale against the flush under her eyes. The man rises, setting a hand on her shoulder, bending to murmur in her ear. 

Frodo squirms, fussy even now, and he sets the boy down. Gandalf moves to him, protective or curious, taking the look of fury he sends over with a tilt of the head. He’ll have to have a talk with the wizard later, perhaps one focused about tact or consent or simply politeness. What sort of man drags another god-knows where for a service that was never agreed upon? 

A moment of tense silence passes, broken only by Frodo’s snuffling and curious babbling, and, finally, the Queen turns to him with calmer eyes. Hardly kind, those eyes, but they seem as if a fire kept in a forge, barely tamed but contained nonetheless. She thrusts her hand out in a Manish greeting, mouth pulled into a grimace. Her lip bleeds, a scar reopened, and her tongue flicks to clean it, his throat drying once more. 

He takes her hand hesitantly, worried for her grip (strong, like any dwarf’s) and the possible state it might leave his in. He has heard stories of men loosing their fingers to friendly dwarves, or drunk elves with knives and a game in mind. But her hand does not crush his, thick as a branch and hard with scars and burns, and it only jerks his up and down in something akin to a attempt at friendliness. 

He does not think her terribly social, this Dwarven Queen. But perhaps that is merely the manner of royals, secluded from the masses by gold and blood. 

“I am Queen Dís, of Erebor.” she greets, eyes flicking to peer at his feet. He, pointedly, returns her stare, directed towards the scarring running along her chin. “And my bowsman here is Earl Bard, of Dale.”

“How do you do?” greets the far friendlier Bard, a smile in the mist of stone-set grimaces. 

“I--” he swallows, pauses, and looks to Gandalf. His gray head nods, comfortingly or amused, a gesture with a million answers that he isn’t certain as to the intended one. “I am Bilbo Baggins-Took, of Bag-End.”

Frodo pokes his head out of the corner he’d settled in, scampering over with a gemstone in hand. The Queen takes it from him and sets it on her desk, clearly displeased with a child pulling her decorations out of the wall, but she does not berate him. He turned to his boy and plucked him up, pushing dark curls from his little face and casting a smile to the Queen. “And this is Frodo, my nephew. He’s a clever little thing, no?”

“Perhaps a bit moreso than my boys.” she replies, dry, and he is surprised. A Mother, truly? He thought her a bitter old spinster, but, ah, perhaps royals are simply of that nature. How _grouchy_ her children must be. “Do you know of what Gandalf is attempting to employ you for?”

He shook his head, pushing curls from his face, letting his boy take one into his mouth. “The contract provided was not terribly detailed, despite it’s length.”

“Balin is a rather wordy individual and, while wise, is not a terribly precise being.” She settles back into her chair and reaches into her desk, unfolding a strange map and smoothing it into place, pushing a stack of books off to make room. They clatter to the ground, nearly catching Bard by the toes, but he seems unfettered and, perhaps, quite used to such brutality. 

She points to a town, large and imposing, pulling her hand back as the ink in the paper shrinks and shifts, moving to her will. “The town you are in now is Dale, once a mere trading post for those who could not wander into dwarven territory. And here,” she pushes the town away, ink spiraling out in a single mountain, pointedly enormous when only hills surround it. “Is Erebor, Kingdom of the Dwarves of Durin’s Sculpt.”

Frodo, helpfully, reaches out to touch the map, watching it pull closer around the Lonely Mountain, gates forming beside enormous stone statues, ancient and crumbling. He pulls his boy’s hand away and lets the Queen return the map to it’s original place, a path running from city to mountain, the faintest trace of runes glimmering upon delicate paper. “You said you were of Erebor.”

“The _last_ of Erebor.” she corrects, curious wording, mysterious in the way of keywords and arc terms. “My boys were born here, in Dale, and I have spent most of my life underneath the sky. The gates of the Lonely Mountain have long been sealed, a century of far too many generations, and few still alive were born Under the Mountain.”

“Why?” a Burglar does not ask, and yet his tongue does not still. He is curious, a Tookish nature, but he does not think it is something to hold a grudge over. 

Her face constricts, a grimace that pulls the wound on her lip open once more, and she looks to the side, towards a window. It is stained, blue as the sky, but he can see stone outside, sculpted homes and walls that eventually give away into pastures and dirt, a mountain towering far above, the faintest details of a mighty dwarf poised outside what can only be the Gates of Erebor. “Elvish magic. The King of the Woodlands placed a curse upon the Mountain, sealing it shut. Few of my people managed to escape, and all of our wealth is lost within.”

“The magic holding the gates shut is fading.” supplied Gandalf, quiet for a unusual amount of time, and he steps forward to touch the map, bringing the gate into view once more. “There is a door that is open now, even if it is not within sight.”

“But we are creatures with eyes, not ears like bats. How can we find something that cannot be seen?” Bard inquires, and he swallows around a dry patch in his throat. The heirloom ring feels frozen against his skin, tucked under his shirt, and Frodo paws at it, finishing his fidgeting only when he has a hand wrapped around the width of it. He thinks Gandalf looks to him, noticing his nervousness, and he hopes, with the paranoid fretting of a true thief, that the old man does not connect his worry to his little magic ring. 

“Magic, my friend, is something that is often without sight. That does not mean it does not exist.” the old man replies, and draws a key from around his neck. It’s a heavy looking thing, iron, rough shapes that seem uncared for unless a look closer is taken, lines of careless work revealed to be beautiful runes and delicate carvings. The Queen’s pale eyes widen, dilating in the way of interested folk, and she snatches the key from Gandalf’s grip.

“ _Where did you get this_?” she hisses, running her thick fingers over runework and symbolism, brows furrowing in what he is presuming to be common fury. “This is--”

“Prince Thrain’s? Yes. He gave it to me.” nods the wizard, and the Queen sighs, agitated, setting the key upon the map. “He, _likely_ , knows where the open door is.”

“He barely knows where his own _toes_ are.” Bitter, in the way of scorned families and siblings estranged. A Prince who is of no friend to a Queen? Perhaps they are siblings, even if the typical dwarfish custom (or lack of creative language) of naming siblings in similar patterns is not present. Perhaps such a linguistic quirk is not common amongst siblings of differing genders. He’s never been good with anything other than Westron, and goodness knows where Frodo got his nimble tongue from. “He is more useless than the _housemaid._ ”

“But his memory is as sharp as ever.” argues Gandalf, Bard unhelpfully stepping aside, clearly not the sort for arguing. The bowsman seems kind, fatherly, no matter his odd eyes and unusual similarity to the Queen, and perhaps he is better suited for diplomacy and peaceful discussions. A calmness, to counter dwarfish agitation. “If one of us assists him to the mountain, he may be able to open the door and let our burglar in.”

“ _Your_ burglar.” corrects the harsh Queen, with a physical point to her thick fingers. “A housemaid who did not sign her contract, mind you.”

“Hard to agree to something when I barely know what I am asked to do.” he replies, taking Gandalf’s turn to speak, and Frodo presses his little head against his padded chest in worry. Not a good sign, that. “All it listed were dangers, burning alive and all that, but never a _exact_ item I needed to fetch. I don’t mean to be picky, but preciseness is quite key to a burglary of any sort.”

“... _jewelry_.” sighs the dwarf, fire dimming in her pretty eyes, a weariness that turns her scar purple. “Gemstones made of starlight. Wretched baubles, petty things that doomed my kind to the sky so unloved by my people. Ironic, truly.”

\--

The Queen sends him away, arguing with the old wizard instead, and kindly Bard deigns himself to giving him a quick tour. He wonders what sorts of duties the older man shirks in favour of a quick jaunt, and, briefly, he wonders what sort of Earl a man makes. 

“Over there,” gestures the man toward a fabric-draped stove enclove, all sorts of finery displayed in front. Hobbit-like things, really, lavish and beautiful, studded with unusual threadwork and sparkling gemstones. He looks at them and thinks that, perhaps, they are too fine for even a Hobbit, let alone a dwarf or a man. He’d say Elvish, but they are too small and wide, set upon a variety of mannequens that do not resemble slinky Elven frames. “Is the esteemed dwarven tailor, who produces much of the finer things in Dale. Beside him is the less esteemed but fair more useful _other_ dwarven tailor, who stitches just about anything for not a lot of gold or silver. Fine pair, those two are. Do you care for dresses, Mrs. Baggins? You certainly look lovely in them.”

“I would not think a Earl of your esteem would deign himself to flirting with a thief.” He replies, amused besides his chiding, and, briefly, ponders how old Bard must be. “How do you know I am not many decades older than you, youthful man?”

Bard looks to the side, briefly, flushed red at the tips of his ears and underneath his dark whiskers. “Ah, my apologies. I meant it only in the terms of simple friendship. You are lovely, truly, no matter what path of life you follow, and I am a married man.” 

He smiles and pushes the knuckles of his small hand against Bard’s side, a punch of gentle fondness. “A boy you are, Earl! What a lovely woman she must be, to have swooned someone of your stature and face.”

“Aye, she was.” There is something of a sadness in the man’s eyes, the flash of sharpened teeth underneath his lip, a expression that speaks volumes of a story he cannot read. He figures he should not push his luck, curiosity ignored, lest he upset his kindly host. “But, ah, there is Balin! Out at the market, as I expected. Come along, Mrs. Baggins, I think you ought to meet the dwarf who penned your contract.” 

At the mention of his name, a old dwarf looks up from what can only be a shopping list, buried amongst the throngs of men and dwarf. He’s a small thing, larger than a hobbit but only barely, with large ears and a suitable nose, and hair that is oddly simple for a dwarf. There are no braids, no weaves, no clever twistings: just a simple mane, long and white as snow, thick as a willow’s flowers. People part around him, glancing down to keep out of his way, and Bilbo can’t help but take a moment to envy such respect. 

“Mr. Balin, this is Mrs. Bilbo Baggins-Took. She is Gandalf’s burglar, the one you wrote a contract for.” Bard introduces, and the old dwarf’s smile falls briefly. It rises again after a mere glance, some sort of perplexed glint to his eye, knees bending in a brief but friendly bow. 

“I had been mistaken, then. Gandalf told me his burglar was to be a male. But I suppose these days do not call for pickiness, do they?” Balin holds his hand out in greeting, trembling in the way of old age, but his grip is tight and firm against his own. “Balin, at your service.”

“A pleasure to meet such a well-written dwarf.” he greets in turn, hand aching, stinging in the numb way that dwarves often leave them in. “You have quite the vocabulary.”

“Two hundred years of being a librarian tends to leave you with more words than can be spoken, miss.” The mention of books awakens Frodo, peacefully napping in his arms, big pale eyes peeking up. There is a odd look in Balin’s eyes, as if startled by their unusual shade, even as he extends a finger in greeting. 

“Gamut manan. Nuzuh?” And wider do the dwarf’s eyes go, the typical reaction to his boy’s tongue, and Balin bends his knees in greeting once again. Frodo, helpfully, gnaws on the dwarf’s hand. 

“Gamut manan ai-menu. I’m afraid to say I do not have one upon me. Perhaps, if your mother is willing, you can scamper about the libraries later. Quite a tongue this one has! And sharp little teeth as well.” replies the old dwarf, snatching his hand away. “Where did he learn to speak Khuzdul?” 

“He picks up languages like one would pick up a slice of bread. He’ll make a good linguist, I think.” he replies, hefting Frodo up, letting him chew on his wig. “I only worry he won’t know a lick of Westron, which would make speaking with him quite difficult. Are your libraries safe for someone his size? I wouldn’t want a book to fall upon him and crush his brilliant head.”

“Morbid.” mumbles Bard, out of place amongst the sizes of dwarves and hobbits, large even for a man. He wanders off, within sight, to admire jewelry and cloth while they moved their conversation to a bench. 

“Have you accepted the terms and conditions of her Majesty’s contract?” inquires the old dwarf, reaching for his pipe. Frodo glares at it and he returns the well-carved piece of stone to his bag with a sigh. “I would not think she would send someone so delicate into Erebor, no matter what Gandalf thought, especially not a Mother.”

“He is my nephew.” he corrects, shifting around his corset and padding. It’s started to itch, typical of several hours spent with it crushing his bones. “And she is busy arguing with Gandalf, and neither has truly explained the situation to me. Last I saw them, she was screeching about some fellow called Prince Thrain. A estranged brother, I presume?”

The dwarf’s expression grows sour, sadness prickling at the corners of his mouth. “Her Father, actually. Prince Thrain never ascended to his throne. He was not... _well_ enough to rule, even if the only other option was his youngest child. Queen Dís was never terribly fond of her father, especially when she was a babe. Bit of a chunk of his finger when she was tiny because he stuttered his goodnights, even!”

He flinches in sympathy, Frodo gnawing off a strand of hair and whining when he pulled it from his mouth. “Frightful woman, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Hardly. She is a good Queen, Lady Dís, and she means well. She was not raised to rule, and her body is broken by motherhood and Erebor’s shadow. She should not be walking about, let alone guiding a entire society.” sighs Balin, twirling the end of his beard around thick, worn fingers. “Take her insults lightly, miss, for she has many of them, and they find themselves flung towards every townsperson.”

“Then how is she a good Queen?”

“She has protected us from four wars, six invasions, three attempted plagues, and twelve winters in which food and shelter were scarce. The people are content with her bitter tongue, as she has saved us from things far worse.” the old dwarf smiles and offers a strip of leather to Frodo, who took it happily and shoved it into his mouth. “The Mountain... it is a difficult subject for her. She was very young when it fell, the youngest of it’s children, and it took most of us with it.”

“What happened? Her majesty said it was Elves who sealed the gates, but nothing more.” He turns his head, briefly, to watch children pass, Bard in the shadows and the Mountain above them all, a single spire that spirals out into the blue of the sky. He does not hear birds, he realizes, neither gulls nor ravens nor robins, only the barest squack of fretting hens. 

“She is correct, even if vague.” Balin leans down to flick his fingers, encouraging a lone chick closer, a ball of dusty yellow in his ink-stained palm. “Elves came to our door, long ago, and a earthquake happened soon after. Very few of us recall it fully, traumatized by our losses, and very few of us truly are of the Mountain’s Make. Children are told of the elves who arrived to steal treasure, cursing us out of our home when our King refused them, and it has done nothing to endear them to the night sky.” 

“Is that what I am tasked to retrieve? Elvish jewelry? Seems terribly simple for all this fuss.” he huffed, stroking the back of his hand against the chick’s head, Frodo reaching out to gently poke at it’s tiny beak. “What use is a burglar when your halls are full of the dead?”

“She has her reasons, as does Gandalf. I trust them deeply, for their judgement has saved my beard many a time.” the chick is set back down, with a worried hen chirping upward. “Durin’s Day passed, the hundreth year of our loss, and the Elves are on their way to gather their treasure. We cannot slip within our old home, sealed by magic that keeps dwarf and man out. Can you not help us, Mrs. Baggins?”

He bites his lip, looks to his boy, with his bright eyes and beautiful curls, fingers tiny and grasping at whatever he could reach for. His heirloom ring aches against his chin, frigid but enticing, singing of empty spaces and languages long dead.

“You will not be forced.” murmurs Balin, who reaches his thick fingers to curl around his own, squeezing in a worried fondness. Bard’s red eyes alight upon them, and upward curls the Lonely Mountain, a tremble of something underneath his feet. “No one will blame you if you stay here.”

He looks towards the empty sky, blue in a endless dome, so terribly wide and frightfully high, immense beyond maps and books and word. He breathes it in, cold air rushing into his skin, and he can’t help but smile in a stupid, abstract wonder. 

“I’ve never seen a dwarf’s kingdom. I hope it’s beautiful.” 

 


End file.
